


Vid Chips: Notes On Safe Labelling And Storage

by Britpacker



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-29
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:07:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: Trip was never very good at reading instructions.  Jonathan should know this.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Told from Archer’s point of view. It’s slightly out of character I know for Captain Integrity, but the loneliness of command and all that jazz…
> 
> As for spoilers, if anything bad’s happened to Trip from 2.26 "The Expanse" to 4.22 "Terra Prime" it’s probably mentioned in the prologue.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all started so innocently....

"Hey, Cap'n, hold up a minute!"

My best friend sounds happy. He always does these days, and it's enough, just, to put a smile on my face when I halt mid-stride and spin to face him as he tears down the deserted corridors of D Deck like he's got a horde of venom-spitting Intari on his heels. "Hi, Trip. Problem?"

"Nah." When I see his hand going to his breast pocket I understand, and my leaden spirits take a sudden upward lurch. "I got the semi-final games through last night; been carrying the damn things around all day hopin' to catch you outside of the ready room..."

"But I've been an asshole hiding in a corner. I know." 

His mobile features twist into a clownish parody of disapproval that's spoilt by the sparkle in his eyes. "Now Cap'n, you know ah wouldn't say somethin' like that about a senior officer," he drawls, extending every syllable until he sounds eerily like the late Charles Tucker I in earnest late-night conversation with the moonshine jug. I laugh and he thrusts the precious data chip out on an open palm, ready to snap his fingers shut around it when I extend mine. I know his games. I'm just glad to see him playing them again after two years in hell.

I disgust myself. My Chief Engineer lost his little sister to an unprovoked alien attack against our defenceless planet; had his DNA stolen and abused by an isolationist maniac; not to mention getting screwed around by our resident out-of-control Vulcan, and yet can still find reason to sing (badly) on the way to his station every morning. I get cheated by one small-time colonial leader in the middle of a lousy run of luck and slink away to hide under my desk, refusing to face the people I'm supposed to lead.

And yet Trip still smiles at me like a proud daddy watching his son and heir take that first wobbly step; I almost expect him to start cooing when he waves the world championship semis under my twitching nose. Nobody could have a better friend, and as I grab the chip I keep a hold of the hand beneath it, hoping with my grip to express what my mouth would - on this week's evidence - just foul up. "Thanks."

"Enjoy." He's hopping from one foot to the other: too much the subordinate officer to bolt but barely able to contain his impatience to get away. He's grimy and a tad dishevelled, sweat shining on his brow beneath the hallway's unforgiving lights. It must've been a tough few shifts in the engine room. 

My fault. Again. Malcolm warned me about those fluctuating energy signatures from the planet's surface; even told me straight that they looked to be coming from missile silos. I was the credulous fool who believed the Natrak deep-core mining story, but it's my senior Engineering and Armoury officers who've been pulling double shifts for the three days since to get Enterprise back into shape. 

No wonder Trip's keen to get home. "Dismissed, Commander."

"G'night, Cap'n." He'll leave scorch marks on the deck plating, cornering at that speed. 

I don't know whether it's the chip in my hand or the warmth of friendship inside my chest, but as I shake my head and carry on toward the turbolift I feel better than I have all day. It's good to see Trip buoyant again.

Even if I'm still getting my head around the knowledge that my best buddy - I'd always thought my _straight_ best buddy - is running to the arms of my very male Chief Tactical Officer. 

The data chip gets tossed aside for another day and I head for the shower with a smile on my face. Trip and Malcolm. It sounds so wrong, but somehow it just feels right.


	2. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan's been looking forward to watching his vid. He's in for something of a surprise.

My week hasn't gotten better, but at last there's a chink of light: two hours' freedom, a cold beer in my personal refrigerator and the water polo calling from among a dozen trivial report PADDs stacked by the big screen. With Porthos fed and my comm. frequency disabled except for emergencies (and with T'Pol and Malcolm on the bridge that'll mean a reactor breach or mass Suliban attack, nothing less) I can kick off my boots, dim the lights and relax.

Screw snacks; the beer's all I need and as soon as chip's in the slot I grab it. I can hear the screen hum into life while I'm bent over the refrigerator, then a low moan vibrates through the cabin.

Wait a minute, that wasn't me. In fact it sounded almost like...

Malcolm.

I'm turning in slow motion; the chilled bottle slipping through my slack fingers to shatter on the floor takes forever. Stretched full length (and in spectacular high definition) across the giant screen my Armoury Officer smiles seductively at me, one hand sliding lazily from chest to belly, giving a teasing last-second swerve away from the enormous hard-on that's got his classic ready room _Attention_ stance just right. " _Do_ stop playing with that bloody thing," he purrs, and while I know Porthos will get sick if he keeps lapping the puddle of booze at my feet I can't even crook a finger to stop him. "I thought the idea was to come and play with this instead."

His voice deepens as he takes himself in hand, the pad of his thumb sliding through the small pearl already formed across his slit, shifting to brace his bare feet against the sides of his bunk: knees bent, body open, exposed and proud. 

Hell, he's got a lot to be proud _of_.

The image wavers, then clears. "Perfect."

"I'm glad the Commander approves." Malcolm's shoulders lift off the pillow, his head falling back, eyes half-closed as he continues to pleasure himself, that graceful hand gliding up and down, pausing to roll one tender sac then plunging further. I can see his long fingers flex, and the pulse in my dick throbs its understanding. 

There's another nude figure at the edge of the picture now, penis erect in blatant appreciation. I know it's Trip - my best friend - but somehow that doesn't matter.

Dammit, I'm straight. This shouldn't be turning me on.

But oh God, the look on his face when Trip swoops down to catch one rosy nipple between his teeth! Pure ecstasy.

"Sonofabitch." My Chief Engineer sounds strangled. "Easy, darlin', that's mah job."

"Hmmm, then come down here and do it properly, lover."

Pleasure-glazed grey eyes gleam out of the screen, locking onto mine. It's like I'm being pulled into a black hole, as if he's drawing all the strength from my legs and I collapse into my chair, thighs wide apart, pants way too tight. Malcolm's writhing, more than a little breathless from his own endeavours, upper body rising off the mattress again to greet his lover's weight. How come I never realised in decon how well endowed they are?

Maybe, Jonathan, because it's not an area of his crew's lives a captain should be focussing on. I'm never going to be able to keep my eyes at shoulder-height in Phlox's torture chamber with either of them again.

I should turn it off. Should've done it a while back. But I can't, and I'm not going to deny it, I don't want to. It's kind of hard to do the decent thing when my brain's migrated to its southern home, dragging my conscience behind it.

I can't remember the last time I got this hard. It's intoxicating.

Cool air kisses my penis and slithers around my balls. I can't believe I'm doing this but it feels so good I can't stop myself, wiggling free of my pants to get a better grip. Malcolm's groan almost drowns mine. 

Lucky bastard. The fingers playing in his pubic curls belong to a lover. I've got to make do with my own.

Usually I don't find that prospect appealing, but right now? Hell, if Porthos was to make me an offer I'd probably take it. Cold sweat's forming on my forehead. Every inch of skin prickles with gooseflesh. Dammit Trip, what did you just do to make him _squeal_ like that?

"Again!" Malcolm growls, his whole body pushing up as if it wants to dissolve it into its mate. Trip's between his thighs now, kissing and biting his way down that lean, elegant neck while his hands work over chest, abs and that huge, florid dick. 

Has he grown an extra pair? Surely it takes more than two hands to make a human body dance like that!

Heck, I'm bigger than Malcolm (most ways: I'd say where it matters most he might almost have the edge), I'm only using one, and it seems to be working just fine. My breathing's gotten shallow. It's way too hot in here.

Just dashing the sweat off my brow starts tingles racing all the way down to my tight balls. Loud panting fills the air and I can't be sure anymore if it's mine or theirs. Rough Starfleet-approved upholstery chafes my bare ass, adding to the onslaught of stimuli. I want more.

"Oh God yes!"

Trip's got Malcolm's legs spread, exposing the slide of fingers into asshole to the camera's glare for a moment before he moves, damn him, hiding the good stuff while he works that sweet, lily-white butt. Malcolm's sharp features seem to melt with pleasure, small whimpers breaching the tight barrier of puckered lips. My sphincter flutters. It's like a dozen butterflies taking flight up my ass. 

"Good?"

Trip's voice rasps through the room, thick and gravelly. Damn this super-clear screen, I can see every fine tremor that's racing through him; can almost taste the drop of sweat that's running to the end of his nose. Malcolm mews.

"Hold on tight, lover-man, 'cause it's gonna get better."

It had better happen fast. My vision's getting blurred: it's as if all my senses are concentrated in my cock. Their voices rise and merge like their entwined bodies, cream and honey swirling together 'til they're a perfect sweetened blend. Malcolm's legs are tight around Trip's waist now and my friend's ass cheeks clench and relax with every stroke, just like the cute little furrow that cuts between Malcolm's eyebrows. I've seen it deepen in concentration and concern before; I'll never look at it the same way again.

I'll never believe his shy and retiring act again either. His litany of plea, demand and obscenity's winding through my fogged-up brain like a satin ribbon, coherence deserting him as he humps his lover's invading length. 

"Aaahhh...Trip, yes...oh fuck...harder, uuhh yes faster, oh please, oh God, there! Aaahhh, Trip!"

My hand's found the same rhythm Trip's using to tug Malcolm's trapped erection, and God it's good, hard and firm, the skin warm and slick beneath my fingers, blood rushing through the swollen vein. I'm bucking into my own touch, throat getting raw from gasping and groaning. I'm not usually loud when I'm jerking off. 

Malcolm's head falls back; his eyes roll and oh thank God he's finally coming, thick, wet spurts that surge in time with mine and it's so good, feeling like liquid fire, like my whole body's melting through my clawing fingers. Trip's howl sounds muffled - like it's coming from another quadrant. I'm right there with them and we're coming so hard it's never going to end, semen spraying, molten bodies singing through the vortex, and...and...and...

*

"Mmmm, snuggle please."

I don't know how long I've been like this, half-dissolved into my seat with my wet, limp cock stuck in my fist like a kid's melting ice cream. Feeling this good, sweaty and sated, the slowing beat of my heart still echoing in my ears, I don't care. 

My butt digs deeper into thin foam cushions that suddenly feel soft as eiderdown. There's something warm and solid pressed across my chest. One part of my mind already knows it's my own arm, that I'm hugging myself to reality, but the rest's still too fuck-drunk to care. 

Gradually I can separate my calming breaths from theirs: this audio system's pretty damn impressive too. Soft snuffling sounds float across the room; the faint rustle of cloth as they nuzzle, fondle and fret in the afterglow. It's delicious - addictive. Something brushes through my chest hair, and it takes a second for me to recognise it as my own big, stubby finger.

You know, I'd never have pinned Lieutenant Self-Sufficiency down as a snuggler. But he can't get in close enough, absently running his talented hands wherever they'll reach, and if that's not a purr he's letting out each time Trip touches him, Ambassador Soval's a stand-up comic in his spare time. 

The fluffy clouds are receding, and though I snatch after them it's no use. In their place rolls awareness of the slimy, cooling mess spattering my belly and staining my gaping shirtfront; recognition of the smells, stale beer and deep, musky male sex, that fill the room. Porthos is curled in his bed, one eye fixed on me.

Accusingly.

Oh, fuck.

I want my erotic cocoon back. Now my head's poked out of it, shock, embarrassment and horror hit me like a runaway Bird of Prey. I've just watched my best friend fuck his male lover. And I got off on it.

Big-time. 

The dizziness that swamps me is more potent even than orgasm's rush. I know I'm moving when I feel the sickening lurch of my guts, space sickness times three, and the cabin seems to sway around me. Nothing comes into focus until pain tears through the sole of my foot and I stagger sideways, winding up with my face pushed right into the vid screen. Thank God they didn't install the 3D version, because where my mouth is right now...

The pain in my left foot has the courtesy to fire up when I shuffle aside, distracting me before anything more personal can start getting animated. A glance down confirms there's blood seeping through what's left of my sock.

It trails its way through the small minefield of sodden carpeting and glass shards that I've just stormed across like an enraged Klingon. Without looking round I deactivate the vid, killing the faint, snuffling sounds of muffled endearments between sated lovers that'd play hell with the focus of a Vulcan master. 

Look at me! Planet Earth's first emissary to the galaxy lurching around a cabin that reeks like a seedy nightclub with my spent cock hanging from my half-mast pants, shivering feverishly while my goddamn smug beagle sits up in his bed and stares. If Admiral Forrest could see me now!

I've got to clean up - wash away the shame that's burning my whole body - before I do anything about the beer stains and the aroma of _Archer_ that permeates the room. I guess I should get Phlox to take a look at the cut across my instep too, but the thought of facing anyone just now churns my stomach. It'll wash. I may even have an old-fashioned band-aid in the bottom of a drawer. 

Oh. And I'd better reset the chip to the start. Trip's careless, but he's going to notice the mix-up sometime. 

Thank God for that boring pile of departmental reports I've not looked at yet. When he comes looking, I can claim to have been the diligent captain they expect me to be. Time to watch the games? Hell, I wish!

If I practise them enough, maybe the words will come out right when I have to face him.

Yeah. Right.


	3. Night Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s been celibate too long. Johnny’s sliding full-speed down a very slippery slope

I disgust myself. I never knew I was a pervert. 

All I can think about, every second my mind's let off the leash, is _them_. I hear their voices when I'm tossing and turning in bed, fighting the urge to caress myself. I'm reading every dirty secret I've ever had, heard of or read about into the slightest glance they share. And they're oblivious.

I'm a better actor than my high school drama teacher thought. Because if I'd started stuttering, colouring up or making a fool of myself in front of him my best friend would've called me on it. Or worse - he'd get that hurt, puzzled look around the eyes that always tells me when something's bothering him. Subtle isn't a word in the Tucker family dictionary, and thank Grandpa Charlie for it.

This can't go on. The captain of the Enterprise can't wander around in a daze of guilty arousal. Jonathan Archer, heterosexual man, mustn't fantasize about his bisexual best friends. 

Which, of course, is why I'm creeping around my half-lit cabin in only my bathrobe before twenty hundred hours. It's why my vid screen's been moved to the side of my bunk, and why poor old faithful Porthos has been coaxed into the opposite corner of the room with a giant bone wheedled out of Chef. My palms are sweaty; my fingers tremble so badly they can hardly fit the chip into its slot. 

It's been sitting on my desk for days just waiting for Trip to come by, shifty and stammering while he tries to figure out if I've discovered his filthy little home viewing habits. I couldn't give a presentation on warp theory, but I'm a passable engineer; I know how to wipe the evidence, and I'd better, for both our sakes. 

Malcolm's a reserved kind of guy. Respectful of authority. But I don't want to imagine what he could do to a senior officer who wantonly violated his privacy. Or to the moron who confused an intimate home movie with a water polo game. 

Guess Trip will be more careful labelling his massive vid collection in the future.

I'm rambling. In my own head. Damn you, Jonathan, do you want to do this or not?

The frisson that races down my spine is answer enough. I'm a contemptible damn voyeur, and right now, I love it.

Two days ago I swore I'd never look at the thing again. How could I when even thinking about it made looking at two of my key personnel so hard?

Yesterday I was reduced to telling myself I wouldn't invade their privacy again. Not for anything. That I'm too decent a human being to satisfy some sick sense of curiosity, and anyway, gay sex doesn't turn me on.

Not long ago I'd have believed it.

Even over dinner, playing referee to Trip and T'Pol's daily squabble, I still pretended I only planned to work through reports tonight. Did I believe myself? 

To use a classic Malcolm-ism: not bloody likely!

It's been there like a constant itch: this excitement in the pit of my stomach that uncurls whenever I let my guard down into a tingle running deep into my balls. It's been impossible to keep still in the captain's chair. I thought Hoshi was going to call Phlox to the bridge this afternoon. Either that or check me over for fleas.

Now it's time. I'm on the bed, a jellified mess of arousal, torn between getting it on and lingering, holding onto this illicit thrill as long as possible. Spread my legs, feet braced on the frame, I'm playing with myself already, fingers parting my chest hair, toying with flattened nipples until they start to rise and peak. 

I've been half-hard since I left my private mess, anticipation mutating into a physical sensation that fizzles up my asshole. The image wavers for a moment, and then...

Jesus. I didn't expect _that_.

Trip's propped up on a whole stack of pillows, his arms above his head, wrists together. There's something shiny glinting around them, and when realisation comes the twang that starts in my balls rips right the way up my backbone. 

Handcuffs.

The way he's restrained means he has to lie at an angle, his broad shoulders cramped into the corner of the bulkhead, making him stretch at a slight diagonal with his legs hanging off the end of the bed. He's completely exposed, every muscle in his well-built body straining when he moves. He's certainly aroused, but he sure as hell doesn't look comfortable with it. 

"C'mon, Malcolm," he whimpers, his restraints clanging with every move. "You're not just gonna stand there, are y'?"

"Given the nature of the view, possibly."

Trip's swollen phallus twitches. So does mine. That _voice!_

It trickles down my cock like silky cream, and I have to sit on my hands. Malcolm's in the mood to play, and I'm damned if I'm going to miss the fun. 

He glides into shot and sweeps in for a teasing kiss before pulling back to his familiar inquiring stance, head tilted, arms across his chest, cock standing proud...okay, that's not exactly a normal part of it, but I'm not seeing _Lieutenant Reed_ right now. His platinum gaze rakes Trip's length, tongue snaking around his lips. Like a kid at Christmas, trying to decide which candy to eat first. 

It's a good look on him.

So's the one on Trip when Malcolm clambers onto the bed and starts rubbing his face all over that squirming body, murmuring and sighing the whole time. My fingers get busy massaging my butt cheeks, and when he nuzzles Trip's balls, tongue flicking out to taste the velvet-soft flesh, I can't stop diving down to that sensitive spot just behind mine to get a little of that pleasure for myself.

There's an involuntary increase in pressure when Malcolm replaces his face with his dick, clambering awkwardly to rub it through Trip's chest mat, his head thrown back while he savours the scratch against the most sensitive skin a guy has. The prisoner swallows. Dammit he's practically drooling, and so am I.

"Do you want to taste it?" Malcolm grabs himself at the base and settles astride his lover's chest, the head of his cock tantalisingly close to those puckered lips. I can see it twitch as Trip's breathy answer ripples over it. 

"Oh, yeah."

It's hard to see around him, but if I crane my neck and - oh, God!

Trip's tongue swirls around that rampant hardness like it's an ice cream on a summer day, and Malcolm's strangled squeak tingles in my ear. His spine would snap if it straightened any more; his hands clenched around Trip's captive forearms, the pain of holding back twisting his glistening features. Just the smallest rock of the hips and his tip slides into that gaping mouth. I can't stand this anymore!

Neither can Malcolm. He pulls himself back with a groan, every muscle in Trip's upper body straining to follow that dripping cock as it slides back down his body. I've got a grip now, feeling the blood burn through the heavy vein beneath my hand, every pulse timed to the next pant of breath. I'm on fire. It's agony. I love it.

"Baby, please." The plea comes over a lousy commlink, fuzzy and distant. I have to force my drooping eyelids up. Have to see what's making Trip sound slurred and so damn needy. 

Oh, God.

Malcolm kneels on the edge of the bunk, spreading Trip's legs. When he turns and winks at the camera my heart damn near stops: then I see what he's doing and it's kick-started into overdrive. 

There's a jar of oil at his side and he's slathering each finger in turn; flicking the tip around Trip's open asshole before rocking back to watch the first slim digit disappear into that dark tunnel. Trip threshes; even though he's biting his lip a little whimper breaks free. Lucky bastard.

I'm gaping like a stunned fish but my chest feels tight as my white-hot balls. I can't breathe; can't move. Another finger disappears. My best friend yelps.

"Jus' there!"

Oh, yeah. Just like that.

If I thought the fingers were hot, this is blistering. Malcolm hooks his man's legs up over his shoulders and shifts, holding himself so the camera can catch every slow moment as Trip Tucker's ass accepts his tumescent cock. My fist tightens and my groan rolls over theirs at the shot of extra sensation. A strong man opening himself, giving up his ass to his lover... I've never seen anything sexier.

I can't stop squirming now, moving to the rhythm of Malcolm's thrusts, and dammit he's blocking the view, hands wrapped around Trip's biceps as he pounds that willing body. I'm so hard, painfully hard, the hot skin beneath my hand getting slick with my own fluid, the air heated and heavy with sex. It's getting hard to focus on the action and oh God, I want to see!

Malcolm throws back his head. Trip stares into the camera.

Oh, God. 

It's like we're linked; as if every move of his restrained body pulls an answer out of the depths of mine. His eyes are liquid black, all pupil, rolling as he strains toward me and only the scratch at the back of my throat lets me know those loud, frantic moans are mine. 

I'm not alone in my sterile cabin; I'm right there on the bunk with my lovers, feeling their moist breath fanning over me, the brush of hair-spattered skin on mine. Someone's playing with my body hair, pinpricks of pleasure skittering through my chest, and the repetitive creak of bedsprings squeals through the ragged rasp of heavy breathing. They're burning me up.

Trip rears off the mattress, his face contorted in a climactic scream. Every muscle bulges, the veins standing out in his neck and arms, and still he's staring me dead in the eye, pulling me with him into the fire and yes, I want to burn with him! The channel clenching my cock pulls tight; my balls just burst and I'm soaring, sobbing, shaking from the core. Every star around us is going supernova and now another voice is rising, crying out, the sound crashing down on me and I'm falling, falling, never want this rush to stopâ€¦

*

Warm. Safe. Loved.

It's been forever since I last felt this good. 

Somehow I've gotten the blankets wrapped around me, holding the heat of my climax in a sticky cocoon. Every muscle thrums with that unique sweet ache and I keep shifting, stretching, needing more. Their voices drift through the cabin, low and throaty endearments that keep guilt and shame at bay. With my eyes closed and sleep winding its way around my softened limbs their pillow-talk's a lullaby. For the first time in months, I'm completely relaxed.

Heck, if you can't cuddle a lover, you might as well go to sleep properly sated and cuddling yourself!


	4. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's always a reckoning, and now it's time for Jonathan's.

I managed to return my Armoury Officer's cordial greeting without blushing on my own bridge this morning. I didn't make a fool of myself in a meeting with my Chief Engineer - or if I did, my First Officer displayed a level of tact unheard of in her species by not calling me on it. I've been walking on air all afternoon from the heady mix of relief, reminiscent pleasure and illicit glee. It's like stealing a cookie from Dad's workshop when I was a kid and getting away with it.

Like sharing their sexual joy, the sensation is addictive. What kind of slippery slope am I on here?

One that flattens out at the foot of a brick wall the moment I'm confronted by a hangdog Trip Tucker at my door after dinner, hands shoved deep into the pockets of the rattiest pair of crumpled blue jeans ever to cup a human ass, and face the colour of Chef's tomato soup. "Uh, sorry to disturb you, Cap'n, but I was wondering - you watched the semi finals yet?"

"No." The lie comes easy, and that bothers me. I've turned into a peeping Tom this week. I don't want to find out I'm a congenital liar too.

When his candid expression floods with relief, I don't mind so much. I've got to remember this is way more embarrassing for him than me: and at least three times as dangerous, given how steamed Malcolm must be right now. 

Ushering him inside, I give the pile of PADDS on my bedside cabinet a scowl. "You got the final through already? If so - hold onto it for me."

I'm proud of that little flourish. Trip comes out with this weird sound that's half snicker, half gulp. "Uh, not exactly."

He can't look me in the eye as he hands over another chip, identical to the first. It's unmarked. "See, me and Malcolm were just sittin' down for our own little movie night and - well, he's been telling me for weeks I should get _that shit-hole masqueradin' as a blind an' demented magpie's nest_ I call my closet cleaned out."

Even Hoshi sometimes has to applaud our English gentleman's linguistic imagination. "Guess you'll want your movie back."

That was too high-pitched, Jonathan, but it's my lucky night. Trip's too shaken by his mistake to notice if a Romulan admiral started banging on my window begging for asylum. "Er, yeah," he mutters, before almost snatching it out of my hand. "It's s'posed to be a real good movie: we've been meaning to watch it for a while..."

I'll just bet they have! "Well, I hope it meets Malcolm's exacting standards." He blinks owlishly and I find myself rushing to clarify a completely innocent statement. "I'm not a regular at movie night, Trip, but I sure as hell know what a critic he can be next morning if the picture's a flop."

Got to get him out of here before the flames licking around my dick start my pants giving off smoke signals. I may not know my Armoury Officer as well as I do my Chief Engineer, but I kind of doubt tonight's little show will be a disappointment.

The way he's fidgeting I get the feeling it's not going to be hard to move my gregarious best buddy along this time. "Um, yeah, he don't hold back," he mumbles, the unintentional double-entendre firing something straight into my cock. "So - enjoy the games, Cap'n."

"Thanks."

If he notices I don't return the compliment, he doesn't question. Then again, considering the way he's waddling as he crosses my threshold, I don't think he'd have noticed me yanking out my partially hard penis and waving it in his face. 

I toss the polo games down on the desk and let myself sink into my single armchair, already delving past my fly. My body's demands have been easy to ignore for the last four years, but now? Hell, my libido's screaming like a toddler on a ghost train ride, and I'm just like any anxious daddy - I'll do whatever it takes to placate the little guy.

Warm tendrils of pleasure uncurl through my core and my eyes drift shut. I'm picturing them together, nude on the bed, already entangled as they watch their previous encounters play out on a big screen. I'll bet they don't make it past Part One tonight!

Imagining them together right now - Malcolm already naked on his bunk, Trip tossing those grubby clothes back into the laundry chute from which he must've grabbed them before running down here in a blind, hormonal panic - finally takes my mind off wondering what Act Three on the chip might be. 

It also gets me off embarrassingly fast, and lying here in my own mess, my head still spinning with erotic images, I make the kind of instant decision Starfleet expects of its captains. The next friendly planet we find, I'm taking myself some shore leave and I'm going to get laid.

I don't care if the women have meter-long noses. Or a dozen different-coloured eyes. Or even horns in awkward places. I've got to get myself off this slippery slope into voyeurism, and finding myself some action's the best way of doing it.

And fi the Vulcan Priestess doesn't find that piece of logic to her liking - well, she can go do what I've spent too much time doing. Screwing herself!


End file.
